Blade and Blood
by poison tiara
Summary: How Eowyn would've eventually rid herself of Wormtongue, if not for the intervention of Aragorn, Gandalf, and etc.


"Blade and Blood"

or, an alternate way in which Eowyn would have freed herself from the clutches of Wormtongue without the intervention of Aragorn, Gandalf, etc., etc.

The corridors of the Golden Hall were silent but for the quiet, almost dreamlike swish of fabric against the cool marble floors as Eowyn, lady of Rohan, slowly glided by, her long white gown barely brushing the floor. Although her face was placid, the veneer of serenity was broken by her cold, grey eyes. Always, she felt his stare, lingering far after she had strode from the chamber. Always, she felt his longing, his lust even in the harsh wind that blew through the plain. She was never outside his greasy clutches.

The name came to her lips with bitter venom she wished to spit in his eyes and forever blind him with, if it were possible. "Worm . . . tongue, Worm . . . tongue," she muttered the vile name under her breath, hatred seething with every syllable.

It was when she passed by Thorgon, one of the knights of Rohan, standing guard at the furthermost west point of the hall with his hard face and coolly glittering mail, that an idea began to stir. She dismissed it at first, but when she caught sight of the vacancy behind that hard demeanor, it slithered and coiled as if in a haze of pipe-weed into the crevices of her calculating mind until the plan had taken hold.

Eowyn was not vain, but she knew of her beauty and was not unaware of the secret glances she often received from the knights whenever she passed by. Usually, she ignored them, but now, she returned the advance. With one seductive look over her shoulder in only the way a woman can, she caught Thorgon's attention and knew it was sealed.

After another stroll around the hall, she came once again to the ledge where Thorgon was at hand. This time, she approached him, her gossamer gown shimmering in the pearly twilight. The knight's eyes perceptibly widened, and his lips twitched.

"Hail, Thorgon, knight of the Mark," she breathed, strategically placing herself beside him in a spot where the light could capture her essence.

Thorgon was so shocked, he did not know what to do. Then suddenly he fell on his knees to the floor, his sword escaping from his muscular side and landing with a thunderous clatter on the marble. "My-my lady," he stammered from his subservient position.

"Arise, Sir Thorgon," said Eowyn in a husky whisper. She bent over and delicately picked up his sword. After she unsheathed its majesty, she slowly ran her long, slender white fingers down its sleek, silvery edge. "Such a wonderful sword," she murmured, feeling Thorgon's captivated eyes watching her every move. "So thick, so strong, so—_sharp_." Her eyes met his. "Such excellence craftsmanship must mirror the quality of its master."

"Uh, uh," said Thorgon.

Eowyn felt up to its tip. Pausing, the soft, milky flesh of her index finger hovering over its piercing edge, she said, "One wonders what it might do to my soft, vulnerable skin." And then, to Thorgon's utter disbelief, her finger descended to the blade. "Ooh," she said. A prick of crimson blood appeared on her fingertip, and she brought it to her rosy lips and began to suck.

"Oh," she said, "such pain!" She lifted her finger to his face. "Take my pain." She ran her finger over his quivering lower lip.

"Uhhhh," said Thorgon through his blood-stained lips.

And then, ever so abruptly, she pulled her hand away. "How sharp it really is," she said, demurely looking down. "But my future holds nothing for me. Every day, I await the advances of that _man, _that cruel, twisted, horrible man who follows me and watches me and wants to—" She stopped.

She looked back at the knight, her eyes sparkling with tears. "If only he . . . if only," she stammered. She ran her hand across her neck. "Such vulnerable flesh here, is it not? And if one were to use his sword, with a blade as sharp as yours, and with one swift stroke—! Right across his neck, right as he sleeps, before— Oh, death could come so easily, wouldn't it? And then I would be free, free forever from the oily grasp of that—that _man._

"Whoever would do so, I would offer the fruit of my womb," she said, brushing her hand across her slender waist. "Together, we could— But alas, alas," she said, "that worm spoils it! He burrows himself in the apples of my flesh, digging holes, tunneling, rotting me from within. Poisoning me, every so slowly, day after day…."

"_Eowyn_," came a raspy call that echoed throughout the corridor. "Where are you, my dear?"

She turned, the hairs on her neck prickling in fear in the soft light of the evening. "And now," she murmured, "the worm beckons."

She cast one last glance of desperation before disappearing down the hallway, her hips gently swaying with every step.

"Worm," Thorgon muttered aloud to the empty hall after he had watched her depart. "Worm?" A light of knowing came to his eyes. "_Worm."_

The following morning, Eowyn arose with a hope she tried to suppress. Could it be? Was it possible?

She floated down the corridors that day, faster than usual, her face alit with a soft smile. Finally, she came to the furthermost west point of the Golden Hall to find Thorgon kneeling over a squishy mass and stabbing it repeatedly. She could not see what it was, for his large, strong, masculine body blocked the view of his victim.

She treaded over to him, her hand lightly stroking his shoulders. "Oh, sir," she said, "what have you—WHAT!"

Thorgon looked up at her with a large smile. "Yes, my lady?"

Eowyn just stared at him, her mouth agape at the scene before her. The knight was stabbing at a large mass of wriggling earthworms. At the end of his sword was a worm cabob oozing with orange blood onto the marble floor.

"See," he said triumphantly, "the worms will no longer tunnel through the fruit of your flesh, for I have broken their necks with the sharp end of my sword."

At that exact moment, the same oily voice from before—the voice that haunted Eowyn's waking moments and nightmares—came from the end of the hall. "_Eowyn."_

Visibly collecting herself, Eowyn cleared her throat and turned to walk away. "The _worm_ beckons me again," she said, not so subtly. "The _worm. _It is the _worm_ who is calling me."

As she headed to the monster, she turned one last time and repeated slowly, with emphasis, "The. _Worm."_

A moment later, Thorgon looked down at his mass of worm cabob and asked it questioningly, "Worm? But—I—" Then he overheard the murmur of Wormtongue. "_Ohhhh."_

Another day passed, and at tomorrow's wake, the golden sunlight began to stream in from Eowyn's chamber windows. The rays gently warmed her face and brought her to consciousness. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open. Smiling contently, she turned her face to see the decapitated, swollen gray head of Wormtongue sitting on the pillow next to her, his eyes wide and glassy and his red mouth open in a silent scream.

Eowyn sat up immediately and shrieked at the top of her lungs, her amplified voice circling throughout the rafters of her chamber. Two pigeons fluttered away from their nests.

It was then she saw the dark silhouette of Thorgon, standing at the foot of her bed, bathed in the light of the sun and gleaming with the blood of Wormtongue drenched all over his armor. "I did it!" he sing-songed. "No longer will the worm despoil your womb!"

Eowyn tried to choke out words and vomited all over her once-white silky linen.

Thorgon handed her an apple. "Have a bite," he said, grinning. "Taste and see! May the fruit of my labor be forever the bounty of our love."

Eowyn took the apple with a violently shaking hand and managed to drop it on her bed. "But we . . . but . . . I . . . can't . . ."

"The worm is gone!" Thorgon declared. "He is vanquished. Now you are free!"

"Free," Eowyn echoed faintly, trying to ignore the head sitting adjacent to her—the silent scream, the glassy eyes.

Thorgon crawled onto the bed. "You are free," he said, breathing heavily. "Did you not hear me, my lady? The worm is dead! His neck is slithered by the point of my sharp, _thick _sword! You are free—to be with me!"

Eowyn scrambled back desperately, trying to avoid the head of Wormtongue at the same time. "But—sir—my good knight," she said with a large smile, "I thank you for your duty—you will forever be in my service—promoted to a duke, maybe!—but I am sorry if I led you amiss, for I cannot marry anyone who is not . . . of royal blood! Yes, I cannot marry anyone who does not descend from the Kings of Old."

"Do not fret, my lady!" Thorgon said, leaping off the bed. "For I thought a-head!" And he reached down and brought out none other the head of her brother, Eomer.

"See!" He squeezed the top of the head so blood ran down into his large, open hand. Then he brought the pool of blood to his mouth and swallowed it. "See!" he said again, blood dripping down his chin. "Now I have royal blood in me! We can be together forever!"

Eowyn smiled large, then ran screaming from her room.

Thorgon rotated Eomer's head so it was facing him at eye level. "Ahh," he said, "she'll warm up to me. Just you wait!"

And so began…


End file.
